


season of possible miracles

by scheherazade



Series: next year, for christmas [1]
Category: D-BOYS, Tenimyu RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Makita drags Jinnai to a performance of <i>Hetalia ~Singin' in the World~</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	season of possible miracles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acchikocchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/gifts).



> Title is, of course, derived from [The Atheist Christmas Carol](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E20PpEsU3oE). Merry Christmas, buchou!

Makita is giving him a look that can only be described as _indulgent_.

Sho goes back to reading the script for his audition. "Would if I could, but I'm busy."

"We're all busy." Makita helps himself to a chair. "But they're letting us go early, seeing as it's Christmas, so there's literally no reason for you not to."

"There are plenty of reasons."

"Such as?"

"I'm busy."

He hears Makita sigh, but there's no rebuttal, which Sho takes as his cue to continue reading and annotating and ignoring the man who'd barged into the office twenty minutes ago hellbent on making him _celebrate the Christmas spirit_ , whatever that even means to someone who believes in neither commercialism nor Jesus.

"Kenki was supposed to go with me, you know."

"Kenki's retiring."

"Are you going with them for drinks next week?"

Sho turns a page. "Yeah, of course."

"Why? Did Mitsuya threaten you?"

"I don't need to be threatened into being a good friend."

"Uh-huh. And Youichirou isn't your friend?"

When Sho looks up to glare at him, Makita is grinning. Damn the man. Also— "Since when do you call him 'Youichirou'?"

"Since he needed new friends, I guess." Makita snags the script out of Sho's hands while he's distracted with formulating an appropriately indignant response. "So! Seeing as you're a good friend, and I'm an even _better_ friend—"

"I submit that your premise is flawed."

"As are most things in life." Makita waves the script airily, dislodging a handful of sticky notes. "Oops, sorry." He gathers them up and slides the script back across the table. "Anyway. Season of hope, season of forgiveness. I'll pick you up at six?"

"What do I look like, your _date_?"

"You wish." 

"Waste of a wish." 

Makita claps him on the shoulder and gets up. "Have some respect, kiddo. And hey, you never know — season of miracles and all."

Sho rolls his eyes, but it's almost impossible to stay grouchy at Makita Tetsuya for more than five minutes at a time, especially when he's out to earnestly charm you into acquiescence. That personality should be illegal, if not outright impossible, on someone who's been in the industry as long as he has.

And yet here they are. "You better bring me flowers!" Sho calls after Makita, who responds with an exaggerated, arm-flourishing bow as he shows himself out.

 

* * *

 

_Your argument is invalid, that is TOTALLY weird_

Sho stares at the text for a solid fifteen minutes, but no, there's really no other way to read it except as complete and utter contempt. From someone seven years younger than him. And someone who, as far as the all-too-well-informed D-Boys grapevine knows, has never been in a real relationship.

He tosses his phone aside. The best way to deal with Shoutarou in a know-it-all mood is to just ignore him because, if you give it a couple hours, Shoutarou will always find a new crisis to nose his way into and forget about yours en route.

Except, apparently, when it's past midnight and nobody else is awake to entertain their resident Agony Aunt. 

His phone buzzes once, twice, five times in succession and finally Sho grabs the damn thing if only to turn it off.

The texts read:

_You didn't come to any of MY shows_

_And don't say you're just being a good friend, I've been a better friend than both of you combined_

_This whole performative fanservice thing is stupid anyway_

_Your ~love line~ with You-chan is so 2000 and late. Truth bomb: nobody ships it._

_Celebrate the real christmas spirit, go buy your favorite kouhai a nice bottle of whiskey_

The correct response to all of this is ringing silence. Sho knows that. Too bad knowing a thing has never been enough to stop him before.

He writes back, _Genuinely worried you're turning into an alcoholic_

 _Take me drinking sometime and see for yourself,_ comes the immediate response, and goddammit, now they're in an actual conversation.

Sho sighs. _Teleport over and it's a deal._

 _Don't underestimate my superpowers,_ Shoutarou writes. _But seriously why are you going to Hetalia. There's no reason for you to go. Don't you have a real job._

 _I don't have a schedule conflict,_ is the most diplomatic response Sho can think of. _Besides Makita asked me, and unlike you I actually respect my senpai._

_HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Lol. Nice one_

_Go to bed you brat_

_You're not my mom ok_

Sho snorts, because yeah, as far as Shoutarou's concerned, the mother figure in his dysfunctional adopted family is — well, it _should_ be Kenta, except for the part where Shoutarou's definitely playing a long game on that one, in which case Sho has zero interest in being cast as the tragic father figure. 

And since Shoutarou's just dismissed Youichirou out of hand — that leaves, like, Yutaka. Probably. Which is a nonstarter for so many reasons that Sho's just going to shut off his phone for real now and go to sleep.

It's weird to think that, four years ago, he'd have been thrilled to know that he and Kenta and Shoutarou would be as close as they are now, given how touch-and-go it'd been at the start.

Of course, four years ago, the idea of either Kenta or Shoutarou being the person he's closest to — well, that kind of thought would naturally be absurd to someone who'd already met his soulmate and believed that perfection came with a lifetime warranty.

In conclusion: four years ago, Jinnai Sho was a pretty stupid person.

It's not a new thought, and he's almost drifted off to its familiar refrain when his phone buzzes again:

_Look, he's not worth it is all I'm saying. All I've BEEN saying. And I bet Makita-san could tell you the same given his own history._

_Ask him yourself since apparently you're set on going_

_Tell You-chan I said hi_

 

* * *

 

The next day, Makita doesn't show up with flowers — he shows up with an entire flower _arrangement_ , in a basket, with a bow and a teddy bear and everything.

Sho stares at the obnoxiously bright carnations mixed in with at least five other types of plants that he can't name and is probably allergic to. 

"You know I was kidding, right?"

"Huh?" Makita looks from Sho's face to the flowers in his hands and laughs. "Oh, chill. These aren't for you."

"Let me guess." Sho flicks the card tucked under the teddy bear's arm. "They're for _You-chan_?"

"Jealousy's not a good look on anyone," Makita responds cheerfully. "Anyway, Merry Christmas! Now let's go. We're expected at half past, so we're already running late."

While Sho splutters a protest — because he definitely doesn't remember agreeing to meeting anyone _before_ the goddamn show — Makita drags him out of his own apartment, the door swinging shut after them.

 

* * *

 

Youichirou meets them at the stage door with a blinding smile that's completely incongruous given his current character and costume. Then again, it'd probably be weirder seeing Youichirou in any situation where he wasn't three seconds away from sparkling with happiness.

"You actually came! And — oh my god, what is this?"

Sho rolls his eyes as Youichirou stares at the flower arrangement. "In the language of flowers, it means—"

"Congratulations," Makita interrupts, elbowing Sho in the ribs. He hands the flowers to Youichirou. "Congrats, on another sold-out show. From me and Mitsuya and the usual suspects."

"Thank you. All of you." Youichirou hugs the basket to himself. "You shouldn't have."

"Yeah, well. People _do_ usually get these delivered." Sho elbows Makita back, for earlier. "But it lacks a certain personal touch, wouldn't you say?"

"Definitely," Makita says, deadpan. "Gotta keep romance alive where you can, you know?"

Unclear who that's actually directed towards, but Youichirou giggles, which. 

And yeah, Sho had made a New Year's resolution to keep his nose out of his friends' private business (mostly to spite Shoutarou), but still — even if he'd seen it coming, joking or otherwise — it's an effort, just then, to not ask, _So how long have you two been a thing?_

From down the corridor, a familiar voice calls out,

"You-chan, have you seen Taishi? Okki's not mad at him anymore, so he should probably stop hiding and go get mic'd up."

And really, he should have seen this coming, too. 

Three things happen simultaneously: 1) Youichirou whirls around, but not before Sho's seen the vaguely guilty look flash across his face; 2) Sho takes an involuntary step back, only to find Makita's hand on his shoulder, keeping him from bolting; and 3) Daisuke turns the corner, sees the three of them, and freezes.

It's been three — nearly four — months, is the first inane thought that crosses Sho's mind. Not quite the longest they've gone, purposefully and meticulously avoiding one another. You get used to the radio silence, after a while.

The problem being, of course, that rehearsing conversations with the static in your own head never translates well into real words for the real world.

Makita recovers first. "Hey, Dai-chan."

Daisuke blinks, breaking eye contact — and whatever moment was maybe possibly happening — as he snaps to attention. The professional mask goes on, overwriting vulnerability like concealer over a fading bruise. 

And that still doesn't hurt as much as when Daisuke responds with, "Makita-san. Jinnai-san." The accompanying bow is crisp as anything. "Thanks for coming to the show."

"Of course." Makita exchanges a look with Youichirou. "Anyway, we'll get out of your hair. Good luck finding your castmate."

"Huh? Oh!" Youichirou blinks and turns back to Daisuke. "Have you tried the sound room? Actually, hang on, I'll go with you..."

"Break a leg," Makita calls after the two of them.

Daisuke's already disappeared around the corner. Youichirou waves over his shoulder — "Enjoy the show!" — and hurries after him. A couple loose petals from the basket flutter to the floor, dusting the linoleum white and pink. 

 

* * *

 

"You could have just said."

"Would you have listened?"

"I'm not _actually_ a terrible friend, you know." Sho glances around the corner toward the main entrance; the lobby is almost empty now, as the performance is about to start. "I happen to have a reputation for being very good-humored and open-minded about this kind of thing."

"Oh, is _that_ what your famous reputation is for?" Makita cranes his neck to scope out the lobby situation as well. "Think the coast's clear enough?"

"Give it another minute." Sho leans against the wall. "Anyway, it's not like I wasn't gonna find out eventually."

Makita gives him an odd look. "Well...yeah. Seeing as he's in this musical and all."

Which — hang on. "What?"

"Daisuke. We literally just saw him?" Makita returns Sho's blank look with one of his own. Then the gears click. "You were talking about something else."

"Yeah," Sho says slowly. "I was talking about your boyfriend."

Makita snorts, but he looks away when he mutters, "He's not my boyfriend, all right?"

"Uh-huh."

"We're not dating."

"You sure about that?"

"You really want to open that can of worms, Jinnai Sho?" Makita's wearing a crooked grin, but the flicker of anger in his eyes is real enough. "Because trust me — I know a tortured, ambiguous relationship when I see one. And you of all people ought to know better."

Implied are a thousand rumors and anecdotes, whispered in dressing rooms, bandied about as punch lines to inside jokes. Sho's heard them all, told a few himself — heard more than a few told _about_ himself, so yeah, he knows. Maybe not better, but he definitely knows.

He hunches a little closer to the wall. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to be obnoxious."

"I know you weren't." Makita glances at the lobby again. There's a long silence, and just as Sho is about to suggest that they go find their seats, Makita says, "You're allowed to ask, you know."

"...What?"

"We've both heard the gossip about each other. And you obviously want to know, so. Ask."

Sho stares at him, but the other man's expression is impenetrable — by simple virtue of being actually, totally guileless.

"You serious?"

"Yeah." Makita's giving him that fond, patient look again. "Season of forgiveness, right?"

From inside the theater comes the muffled sound of clapping, the first thrumming notes of the opening theme. The lobby is completely empty now. Sho chooses his words carefully. 

"Hirata Yuuichirou," he says, and the wrinkles around Makita's eyes deepen just the tiniest bit. Because yeah, that part of the rumor was never in doubt. But as for the rest...

He could ask, _When did it start?_ (to settle a longrunning dispute between Tomo and Seto, whose first-hand accounts differ wildly on this crucial detail). 

Or maybe, _What really happened that time in Fukuoka?_ (because not even Kaji has ever been able to get Makita drunk enough to drag the whole truth out of him).

Or even, _Is he straight?_ (because hey, you never know). 

Except it all seems a bit trivial — all this rumor-mill fuel — compared to the memory of Youichirou smiling as he disappeared around that corner, flower petals fluttering in his wake.

Sho asks, "How did you get over him?"

When he glances up, Makita's regarding him with a thoughtful look, somewhere between assessing and amused. Sho has a split second to wonder if that question didn't reveal more about himself than the actual subject under investigation — and then Makita grins. 

"Great question." He grabs Sho's arm and hauls him toward the mezzanine door. "You're coming for drinks with us after, right?"

"I— What?"

"Youichirou said you're invited." 

"But you just—!"

"Didn't say I'd answer _right now_. Besides, it's a long story." Makita makes a shushing noise as he carefully pushes the door open. "Come on. Show's already started."

 

* * *

 

It is a long story, but the abridged version goes something like this:

Five years ago, Jinnai Sho met Hirose Daisuke at the first Seigaku vs. St. Rudolph/Yamabuki table read. Within the hour, they'd gone from being total strangers to calling each other by dumb nicknames. By the end of the day, the production staff were all convinced that they'd known each other since forever.

It might have been an optical illusion, but it was the emotional truth: Sho had once laughed at his sister for spending her pocket money on soulmate horoscopes; now, as he derailed their weekly phone call with an endless series of anecdotes about Daisuke, it was her turn to laugh at him for being so completely and utterly whipped.

 _Bring him home for Christmas,_ she'd said casually before hanging up. _I want to meet my future brother-in-law._

They both knew he would do no such thing — couldn't, when both he and Daisuke would be working through Christmas and New Year's — but just the idea was enough to keep him warm through a long, busy winter in Tokyo. That, and his sister's wry, supportive voice. And the idea that maybe, definitely, someday, he'd go home to spend the holidays with everyone he loved.

Because here's the problem with optical illusions that are emotionally true: they're so self-evident that, when you're inside one, it's almost impossible to entertain any other possibility.

Other possibilities like the fact that Daisuke — for all the time they'd spent together, all the heart-to-hearts and everyday displays of telepathy that had their friends side-eyeing them with bemused indulgence — for all the moments that Sho put aside, right alongside that dream of Christmas — for all that they might have been reading the same script, a shared history — Daisuke had come away with a rather different interpretation of events.

The first and only time their telepathy had completely and utterly failed, and that hurt almost as much as the rest. 

Because it hadn't been anger or confusion he'd seen on Daisuke's face, when Sho finally worked up the courage to verbalize the confrontation that'd been building for months. He probably could have picked a better time than the middle of a tabloid scandal that had Daisuke's agency threatening to drop him. He probably should have asked, right at the start, before his sister started talking about Christmas and before the illusion reached this point of no return.

This, the only time Daisuke had ever, ever raised his voice at him.

_You're my friend, aren't you? What do you mean 'what's our relationship'? Haven't I always been your friend? Stop. Stop, Jinshan, please. You're scaring me, and I'm about to lose my mind over everything else already so can you just stop because you're not helping!_

The look on his face, in that moment, was betrayal.

Because Sho had let him down, when Daisuke most needed a _friend_.

But how could he be the friend that Daisuke needed, when that had never been the role he was auditioning for to begin with?

There's nothing quite like being rejected by someone you'd always already assumed was yours — and, in that assumption, made yourself his.

It's the difference between _assumption_ and _faith_ : an assumption can be proven false. Which makes it hard to listen to Makita when he says things like _season of forgiveness_ and _season of miracles_. Because what's a miracle, when the worst has already been proven true?

 

* * *

 

After the show, Makita texts Youichirou: _we're heading out first, where/when should we meet you guys?_

Youichirou responds with directions to a bar. Sho peers over Makita's shoulder; he recognizes the neighborhood, but he doesn't recognize the name.

 _Tell them we sent you,_ Youichirou adds. _Juri knows the owner._

"Not going backstage?" Sho asks, because apparently masochism, like cowardice, is a lifetime's affliction.

"Mm. Maybe some other time." When Makita looks up, his eyes are appraising. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Chipper." Sho sticks his hands in his pockets. "So where are we going?"

Makita leads the way, away from the theater, past trees festooned with fairy lights that are almost bright enough to wash out the background colors of Roppongi on a Friday night.

It's unseasonably warm for this time of year.

"I'm surprised you didn't go home," Makita says, an interminable train ride later, as they're searching a maze of tiny side streets for Youichirou's elusive bar. "You usually spend New Year's in Tokyo?"

"I'm usually working." But Makita already knew that, they both knew that, so Sho's just being a dick if he doesn't take it for what it is. "What about you?"

"Same." Makita peers at a dimly lit street sign. "I try to go home for New Year's, but Christmas is usually work and friends. Not necessarily in that order."

"Order's overrated anyway." Sho pulls up GPS on his phone and hands it to Makita, who's gracious enough to silently concede that yes, they're lost. "Who'd you spend Christmas with, last year?"

"Hirata."

"Yuuichirou?"

"Hirata-san to you," Makita says, without looking up from the GPS. "We were both busy, but sometimes you just need another person around to keep you awake while you're slogging through about two hundred pages' worth of shitty scripts. But, you know. It's what you make of it. Yuuichirou more or less invited himself over. Good thing he did, actually — I'd've missed an audition the next day if he hadn't been there to wake me up."

Sho blinks, as his brain processes the implication. "Yeah," he echoes slowly. "Good thing he stayed over." It comes out more skeptical than he'd intended. 

Makita just smiles. "I've known him a long time."

 _That's never been in question,_ Sho thinks. "So it's always been like that, between you?"

Which maybe isn't the question, either. But it's closer. Close enough that the pause before the answer is every bit as tense as Sho expected it to be. What he doesn't expect, is for Makita to respond with, 

"Relationships change. And I'm not just saying that because Yuuichirou put me up to it." 

He must've misheard. "You mean You-chan?"

"No. Though you can thank him for this, too." And there it is: Makita's voice gentles just the tiniest bit, just enough to make all the difference when he says, "Yuuichirou noticed, you know. He's self-absorbed, yeah, but he's got eyes."

And, okay, Sho's not so dumb that he hasn't figured out _something's_ afoot. But of all the people he might've expected to be behind tonight's social experiment — Yuuki, Mitsuya — Endou Yuuya, even — and he wouldn't put it past Shoutarou to pull a double-bluff like this just for kicks. But _Hirata Yuuichirou_...

"Damn," Sho mutters. "This is a new low."

"Onwards and upwards, as they say." Makita hands the phone back to him, gesturing toward a building on their left. Sho glances over, looks down at the GPS, and back up again.

There's no sign, no anything — just a pale blue lamp hanging outside the door.

"This is the place," Makita says.

 

* * *

 

The door opens onto an empty room: one long table, a dozen mismatched chairs, sturdy shelves lined with bottles of shochu, and a curtained doorway in the back.

A bell chimes. The curtain is pushed aside by a grey-haired woman, who must be the proprieter — and who gives the pair of them a long, flat look. 

While Sho starts to formulate an apology ( _sorry for trespassing, we must've gotten the wrong address_ ), Makita says cheerfully, 

"Good evening! We're with the Hetalia cast. The rest of them'll be here soon — is it all right if we sit first?"

"We're full up," comes the response. "Who did you say sent you?"

Makita blinks. "Um. Ohmi Youchirou?"

"We're all friends with Juri-san," Sho adds. "He's in that musical with Ohmi and—"

"Oh, Aikawa-kun!" The shop owner's expression clears so quickly that Sho almost gets whiplash on the double-take. "And Ohmi — you mean You-chan? You'll have to forgive me. The old memory's not what it used to be. Sit, sit!"

She practically shoos them into their seats, before producing a set of cups out of nowhere and filling both generously. 

"First drink's on the house, the rest is on you. I'll leave the bottle here. And don't even think about putting it on Aikawa-kun's tab — he's got enough debt coming to him, with the wedding and everything. I don't suppose either of you are invited?"

Makita blinks. "No, um, I think it's just going to be friends and family? No entertainment people."

"Apart from the actual family, that is," Sho amends, which gets a laugh out of the shop owner. 

"Anybody Aikawa-kun invites here is practically family," she says. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Holler if you need anything — I'll just be upstairs."

With that, she disappears into the back. Her footsteps creak along a wooden staircase, fade into soft pattering on the second floor. 

Makita takes a cautious sip from his cup. 

"I'm starting to sense a conspiracy," Sho observes.

"What conspiracy?"

"The one where you're the bait in the bait and switch." Sho tries his own drink; it's stronger than he expected. "Anyway, I bit. So what's the rest of the story? How did you go from being hopelessly in love with Hirata Yuuichirou to plotting well-intentioned if ultimately flawed interventions together?" 

"Whoa, okay, nobody said anything about interventions."

"What do you call this, then?" Sho gestures at the empty bar. "A coincidence?"

"I call it good judgement from You-chan," Makita replies. "Because if this is how you're gonna take it, then hell yeah I'm glad we're somewhere discreet. Last thing you need is even more stories to go with that famous reputation."

"My reputation can take it."

"Your reputation's a joke with no punch line, Sho. Did you even notice how no one even bothers with your cryptic angst anymore? The moment your friends give up on trying to snap you out of it, _that's_ the moment you've actually hit rock bottom."

"Good thing some of my friends are still in the business of staging interventions."

"Damn straight." Makita tops up both of their cups, though he'd barely made any inroads on his own.

Sho knocks back half of his refill and glares at what remains. "I'm fine, okay? Thanks for the concern — and I'm not even being sarcastic, but whatever Hirata told you, he's wrong."

"Maybe he is." Makita glances at his phone. "But I did say I'd give you your answer. If you still want to hear it."

He does and he doesn't — though the reluctance has nothing to do with lack of curiosity, or even with the inevitable disappointment of actual facts; because if Jinnai Sho is a joke with no punch line, then Makita Tetsuya is urban legend. They've both been around long enough to know that the whole story is almost never the best story. There's a reason movies are ninety minutes long. Same reason why happily-ever-afters gloss over the messiness of what comes next.

So it's not that. What it is — has more to do with the way Makita can say Hirata Yuuichirou's name without a hint of bitterness or shame.

And Sho can't even imagine what that would be like, to let go of both longing and hatred, to be left with something resembling not resignation but acceptance. A banal and ordinary sort of peace. A betrayal.

When you've been orbiting one truth for this long, for better or worse — when you've spent years nursing first a hope and then a hurt — making peace feels a bit like letting go of gravity.

But he did ask. And Makita did offer. Is still offering now, as he watches and waits for an answer. 

"All right," Sho says. "Tell me the whole story."

 

* * *

 

At quarter to ten, Youichirou pops into the dressing room. "Hey! Ready to go?"

"Yeah, um, just a sec." Daisuke peers at the snarled end of his scarf, where it'd gotten caught in the jacket's zipper. There's a tangle of multicolored threads unfurling into chaos; he picks at one, which just pulls the rest into an even tighter knot.

"You'll probably need to cut it." Youichirou peers over his shoulder. "Wow, how did you even do that?"

"Talent, I guess. I don't know. I can't even—" Daisuke tries the zipper, but it's also stuck. He tugs at the scarf again.

He hears a clatter, as Youichirou roots through an adjacent drawer. Which.

"That's Takuya's stuff."

"I'm annexing it." Youichirou produces a pair of scissors. "He won't mind. Here, hold still."

"Wait, I—"

Youichirou pauses when Daisuke flinches away from him. His usual smile turns quizzical. "Sorry. You want to do it yourself?"

"No. I mean." Daisuke can feel himself deflating. "It'll ruin the scarf."

"It's pretty much ruined already. Time to call it, I think." Youichirou's tone is gently teasing. Too gentle, probably, for something as stupid as the demise of a scarf.

Daisuke makes an involuntary face. "I'm being melodramatic, aren't I?"

"Just a bit, yeah." 

Youichirou gives the scissors an experimental snip, an unspoken question. Daisuke drops his arms, and lets Youichirou cut carefully through the tangled mess. 

He glances at the clock. "Where's everybody else?"

"Juri had to skedaddle," Youichirou says without looking up. "Apparently he forgot about Christmas plans with the in-laws. Maaya-san chewed him out pretty good over the phone earlier."

"Matrimony, huh?"

"Not for the faint of heart." The scarf comes free, distinctly worse for the wear. Youichirou picks the frayed threads loose from the zipper. "There. All set."

"Thanks." Daisuke tucks the mangled edge of his scarf in under itself. "Did the rest of them leave without us?"

"Hmm?"

"Taishi and Takuya and — whoever else is going?"

"Oh." Youichirou puts the borrowed scissors back in their drawer. "It's just you and me, since Juri can't make it." Daisuke blinks; Youichirou gives him a sunny smile. "Okay! Shall we?"

"Whoa. Wait a minute." Daisuke catches Youichirou's sleeve before he manages to dart all the way through the door. "Who are we meeting, then?"

The innocent look is so obviously fake it's almost insulting. "What?"

"You-chan!"

"What!" Youichirou flails at him, effectively disloding Daisuke's arm if not his accusing stare. "Stop looking at me like that!"

"You can't lie for shit. Who are we meeting?"

"Me! You're going to get drinks with me." Youichirou side-steps into the hall. "And some of my friends. Who are also your friends. And anyway you already agreed so no take-backs!"

Daisuke follows him. "What is this, junior high?"

Youichirou sticks out his tongue in reply. Daisuke resists the urge to do the same. It's easier than it normally is, staving off Youichirou's irrepressible cheeriness. Maybe because he already knows. Should have known from the start, honestly, the moment he'd turned that corner before the show and found Youichirou with an armful of flowers that weren't as much of a giveaway as the look on his face.

Maybe if he just focuses on that.

"So," says Daisuke, as they step out onto the street. "Makita-san, huh?"

Youichirou is making that scrunchy little face that means he's trying really, really hard not to break into a giant grin. "What about him?"

"Those were some nice flowers."

"They are, aren't they?" Youichirou gives up the losing battle with the smile creeping across his lips. "Really brightens up the dressing room."

"You're not taking them home?"

"Oh, I will. After the show ends. I'm barely home anyway so there's not much point — what?" Youichirou narrows his eyes at Daisuke's sudden coughing fit. "What are you laughing about?"

Daisuke covers his mouth with his sleeve. "Nothing." He gives Youichirou a sidelong glance. "Just, you know, maybe think about what else you should be taking home, along with the— ow! Hey!"

Youichirou swats at him again, and this time Daisuke dodges. "You deserved that."

"For being a supportive friend?" He sounds almost entirely aggrieved, Daisuke thinks. Convincingly so. 

Youichirou rolls his eyes. "Well, please endeavour to be less supportive in front of other people." It's hard to tell in the dark, but he might just be blushing. "I don't want him to get the wrong idea."

"...Pretty sure he knows you like him, You-chan."

"Not _that_." Youichirou's making a face again, though this one is less smiley and much, much more determined. "We haven't even gone on a date yet. You have to do these things right."

Daisuke blinks. If this were anyone else, he might have laughed at them for playing hard to get. Except this is You-chan — You-chan, who can't keep a secret for shit, and who's been a good friend to Daisuke even when he had no reason to be, given their mutual acquaintances. You-chan, who'll never take sides if he can take both, who hates conflict but always get called in to defuse situations because there's no one in the cast — in the world, maybe — who can stay mad in the face of that much sincerity. 

You-chan, who just up and admitted that he's serious about someone he can never actually date, not without breaking approximately five million clauses in both of their contracts. 

Despite that, or maybe because of it, Daisuke thinks — it's sweet.

There's no other word for this. It just is. So really, there's no reason why the look on Youichirou's face should make his stomach twist into knots.

"You're adorable," Daisuke informs him, and watches as Youichirou blushes all the way to the tips of his ears.

 

* * *

 

They can't avoid each other forever. And they haven't. 

Both are facts that Daisuke's known, intellectually, for as long as this game of chicken has been going on — if that's what it is. He's not sure what it is. He just doesn't have a better explanation for what's happened, ever since the day Sho dropped by his place "to talk" and ended up walking out without so much as saying goodbye.

Back then, he chalked it up to the first and only time they've ever fought. 

Three years later, he's realized that only the first part of that statement was ever true. He hadn't just lost his temper that day; he'd lost his best friend. In retrospect, that much is clear.

In retrospect, he still can't think of what he could have done differently so as not to end up here, on Christmas night, trailing along after Youichirou as he texts Makita to give an update on their ETA.

He thinks about the way Youichirou said, _You have to do these things right._

Which has nothing to do with what happened to Daisuke. Because if it did, it would imply that there's something _wrong_ with the way he and Sho clicked right from the start.

It was so _easy_ , is what it all comes down to. They finished each others' sentences as easily as they finished their own — more so, sometimes, because Sho was always better at thinking of witty comebacks. And Daisuke learned to hate the way affection became a negotiable thing in front of cameras and crowds; but Sho hugged him just the same whether they were on stage or behind closed doors.

And that was good, because they were both used to getting their way, as the youngest child of a family. But they were also both prepared to be the adult, to the best of their ability, when faced with kouhai like Shoutarou or Utsumi-kun.

It was Yutaka who actually started calling Shoutarou "Shou-chan", back when they first met. Sho said nothing of it. Later, as they were exchanging contact info, Daisuke typed into the nickname field of Sho's number: _Jinshan_.

Sho had smiled when he noticed. So what could have been wrong with any of that? 

Sho used to buy him coffee on mornings when Daisuke was running late, and one time Daisuke found his cup labeled with a cat drawing instead of an actual name. Fifteen minutes later, Shoutarou walked into the dressing room to find Daisuke all but sitting on Sho and demanding an apology for public defamation of his character to an anonymous Starbucks barista. At least, that'd been the idea. Mostly, he remembers laughing, and Sho trying to tickle him into giving up.

Daisuke isn't someone who gives up. 

And no matter what it looks like, he didn't give up — when Sho stopped talking to him, stopped inviting him to dinners and movies and shopping trips, stopped emailing back when Daisuke sent him KPop videos in the middle of the night because he was too wired from a performance to sleep.

Giving up implies you were putting effort into something and now you've decided to stop. 

So no, Daisuke didn't give up on them. How could he have, when everything about them was always effortless?

He tries not to think about it, because thinking about it hurts in ways old and new. Thinking about it means being reminded of how much effort it takes, now, just to say hello. Thinking about it means remembering that Sho didn't actually say hello, when Daisuke ran into him at the stage door earlier. And thinking about it doesn't change the possibility that Sho might not even be at the bar they're heading to, because he knows all this as well as Daisuke does, so really, why is he still thinking about this?

He's so busy thinking about not-thinking about it that he almost runs into Youichirou when he comes to a stop before an unmarked door.

Youichirou puts a hand on Daisuke's shoulder to steady him. 

"This is the place."

 

* * *

 

The place is empty but for two people, one of whom gets up to greet them.

"Hey." It's addressed to them both, but the person Makita is smiling at is definitely Youichirou. "You made it."

"I got held up a bit, sorry about that." Youichirou returns Makita's smile, then immediately moves to take the chair next to Sho. "Did you two run out of things to talk about?"

Daisuke unwinds his scarf, and sits beside Makita. He looks up in time to catch the look that passes between the three of them. 

"Makita-san's getting talkative in his old age," Sho quips, eliciting an indignant protest from the eldest member of the present company. "Another five minutes and we would've been at the olden days when Wada Masato ran a marathon uphill both ways to and from the Watanabe office."

Youichirou actually covers his mouth with his hands, but it does nothing to muffle his giggling. Daisuke bites his lip to keep a straight face.

Makita rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, now he's upgraded to horseriding, so if you hear a clip-clop next time you go to work..."

Youichirou gives up on trying to stifle his laughter, and Sho's smirk turns into a snort as well. The way his entire face transforms from detached to delighted is the same as always. 

Same as before, anyway. 

"Have you guys eaten?" Makita asks, looking from Youichirou to Daisuke.

"Ah, we had some food earlier..." Daisuke glances at Youichirou, whose gaze flickers to Sho. "Should we order something?"

Youichirou peers at the half-empty bottle of shochu on the table. "Did you two drink all this on an empty stomach?"

"Not everybody gets drunk off a whiff of ethanol, you know."

"Okay, defamation of character. Also, yes, we should definitely—"

"Is that You-chan's cheerful voice I hear?" interrupts a voice from the back. Daisuke turns and sees a grey-haired woman emerging from a curtained doorway.

"Fujioka-san!" Youichirou scrambles to his feet. "Sorry we got here so late — hope my friends didn't cause you any trouble?"

"Speaking of defamation of character," Sho mutters. Makita kicks him under the table.

Fujioka-san beams at Youichirou, then scans the room and quickly arrives at the conclusion, "Aikawa-kun couldn't make it?"

"He has a family thing," Youichirou says, and Fujioka-san snorts. 

"You mean he almost forgot that being married means he needs to spend some time with his wife?" Fujioka-san dismisses Youichirou's half-hearted defense of his castmate out of hand. "Oh, I told that boy when he called earlier — if he wants to keep a woman like Maaya-san, I told him, then he better buck up."

Makita chokes on a sip of shochu. Daisuke pats his back, cautiously.

Fujioka-san peers past Youichirou at the three of them. "That goes for all of you. Consider it free advice from a veteran of the wars." She looks back at Youichirou, whose ears are turning red again. She pats his arm. "I'll whip up some food. The usual, right?"

"Yes. That'd be great." Youichirou edges back to his seat. "Thank you."

"Thank me with your wallets," Fujioka-san says, plunking down two more cups and filling both. She eyes the level of liquid left in the bottle. "I know You-chan drinks like my granddaughter, but are the rest of you this weak, too?"

Makita is grinning, and Sho looks about two seconds away from bursting into laughter. Youichirou covers his face with his hands. 

Fujioka-san chuckles to herself. "All right, all right. I'll be back with that food." With one last matronly pat on the arm for Youichirou, she goes.

Sho nudges Youichirou. "You come here often, You-chan?"

"Not that often!" Youichirou straightens in his seat. His face is still a little pink. "I mean, often enough, apparently. But this is nothing. If Juri had actually made it — Fujioka-san has basically adopted him."

And really, no one can blame Daisuke for claiming such an obvious punch line: "Guess that makes you the daughter-in-law."

Sho starts laughing first, then Makita, and even Youichirou, though it's in direct conflict with the indignant response he keeps trying to summon.

"Now, now," Makita says finally. "In You-chan's defense, we all know that's not true — he's obviously the _granddaughter_ -in-law." 

"Oy! You're supposed to be on my side!"

"Hear, hear," Sho says, even as Daisuke adds, "Yeah, I'll drink to that."

Makita grins at Youichirou, returning mock indignation with sincere affection; the blush is a rosy tone on Youichirou's cheeks. It suits him. They suit each other.

Daisuke glances between the two of them — and catches Sho looking at him. Not just looking; watching. It's instinct, probably, from a lifetime of being watched and scrutinized for your every move.

It's only for a split second. Sho looks away, and then Makita is raising his cup and proposing a mock toast, 

"To You-chan, a vision of youthful spring."

"Oh, shush." But Youichirou's smiling when he lifts his cup as well. "To friends who can get away with saying that to my face."

Makita laughs. Sho says, "Cheers to that," and Daisuke follows suit.

 

* * *

 

Maybe it's because of Makita, and what he'd said. More likely, it's because of Youichirou, whose sheer presence makes it difficult to stay morose. 

Whatever the reason, between them and a bottle of shochu that disappears with alarming speed as Fujioka-san brings out dish after dish of food designed to make it easier to keep saying yes to another drink — by the time Makita picks up the tab, invoking seniority to quell their protests, Sho is almost inclined to think that this wasn't the worst way he could have spent Christmas in Tokyo.

Fujioka-san sees them off, extracting promises from each of them to come again soon. The blue lantern dims in their wake.

"I might fall asleep on my feet," Youichirou says, yawning hugely as they make their way back to the main street.

Makita checks the time on his phone. "Do you want to call a cab?"

Youichirou bumps into his shoulder, almost leaning against Makita for a few steps as he considers it. "No, I'll be fine." He glances at Sho. "You guys all right?"

"Compared to you, yeah." 

Youichirou makes a face, and nearly trips over an uneven bit of cobblestone. Makita grabs him mid-wobble. "Steady there."

"I'm fine, really," Youichirou protests. Not that it stops him from clinging to Makita's arm.

Sho looks the other way. Beside him, Daisuke has his hands in his pockets and a frayed scarf wrapped twice around his neck. He might be smiling to himself, but it's hard to tell with half his face hidden behind the folds of his scarf.

At the next intersection, Youichirou announces, "I'm headed that way. Dai-chan, you know how to get to your train from here?"

Daisuke looks up, blinking, as if he'd actually been sleepwalking. He glances up and down the street. "Oh. Um."

Sho isn't entirely sure what makes him say, "I'll walk you."

Daisuke looks suddenly wide awake. "No. I mean, I think I know where we are—"

"Yeah, 'cause I live about fifteen minutes away from here," Sho says. "I'll walk you."

Daisuke stares at him; Sho stares back. It's not entirely clear who's supposed to be backing down from whom, or what.

Youichirou says, "Okay, great! I'll see you tomorrow, then, Daisuke. Night!"

By the time Sho breaks eye contact to say goodnight, Youichirou has already dragged Makita halfway down the street. Makita looks back over his shoulder, offers a faint little wave.

Daisuke waves back, automatic. 

Then it's just the two of them, standing out here on a street corner illuminated by Christmas lights. 

Sho gestures toward the crosswalk; Daisuke follows him. 

"Thanks," Daisuke says, half a block later. "You didn't have to."

"Don't worry about it." Sho sticks his hands in his pockets. "Anyway, I wasn't about to abandon you to third-wheel those two."

A pause. "You-chan said that they're not — you know."

"Dating?"

"Yeah."

"That's what Makita said, too." 

"So they're not?"

"Only on a technicality." Sho can feel Daisuke watching him. "Yeah, okay, I shouldn't say that. Makita'd have my head, especially since—" _I spent most of this evening listening to his dissertation on ambiguous relationships_ "—they both seem to have strong opinions on the matter."

If Daisuke notices the hiccup in his sentence, he doesn't comment. "And you?" he asks instead. "What do you think?"

Sho doesn't allow himself time to read into it. "I think it's pretty damn cute. You know they watch baseball together? Makita's been like, making a point of tweeting publicly at Youichirou about it, same way he does with everybody else — but You-chan was definitely camped out on his couch for most of the tournament last month. Which, if anybody asks, you didn't hear it from me."

"Please. Who'd ask _me_?" 

"You've got some pretty nosy castmates."

"Who, Kikuchi? He's just awkward. He's been tagging along after everyone — including Juri, though it's pretty clear only one of them thinks they're friends." Sho snorts at that, and Daisuke grins into his scarf. "You-chan likes him, though."

"Juri-san?"

"Kikuchi. I almost expected him to turn up in the middle of drinks because nobody told him that he wasn't invited."

It's mean, and he shouldn't laugh, but he does. Daisuke being catty about mutual acquaintances — casually dropping snide remarks on the implicit faith that Sho would never rat him out — was one of the first things he'd learned to miss.

"God bless Ohmi Youichirou," Sho says out loud, "savior of awkward turtles everywhere."

"Savior of actual turtles, too, probably."

"Wouldn't put it past him."

"Right?" says Daisuke, and the fondness in his voice takes Sho by surprise.

It shouldn't have. Except it does. Because somehow, somewhere along the line — somewhere between Shoutarou's increasingly hostile protectiveness and Makita's third-party sympathy — somewhere in the middle of all the self-pity turned self-loathing turned day-to-day white noise — somehow, Sho had actually started to forget what Daisuke was like.

Daisuke doesn't love people unconditionally, the way Youichirou tries to. And unlike Makita, Daisuke doesn't spend years pondering why he likes who he does. For all anyone knows, Daisuke might not even want a romantic relationship, the way most people do.

But what Sho also knows is this: when Daisuke cares about someone, he does so wholeheartedly. It's a reckless kind of commitment, as playful as it is genuine, and selfish more often than not.

And Sho doesn't have a leg to stand on here, not when he'd taken that affection for granted himself.

"I'm glad you two are friends," he says.

Daisuke hums his agreement. "Yeah. I mean, you'd have to try pretty hard to _not_ like You-chan."

"True."

Except it's always easy, learning to like someone. The tricky part is what happens next.

They walk past his apartment, and it starts to rain.

Daisuke is shivering — the train station is another couple blocks away — and it seems the most natural thing in the world to ask,

"Want to come in for a bit? You look like you could use some tea. And an umbrella."

For a long second, as the cobblestones turn dark with splotches of rain, Sho thinks that he's going to say no.

Then Daisuke smiles. 

"Okay."

They go up. He makes tea. Daisuke sits across from him at the kitchen table, the way he used to before.

And in a different world, this might've been it: Daisuke, with his scarf still around his neck, holding a steaming mug between both hands and smiling that little smile that means he's happy — not because of achievement or applause, but because of simple comforts like warmth, and friends, and tea. In a different world, it might've been enough.

In this world, Sho waits for Daisuke to put down his mug before he says, 

"You have every right to be mad at me, you know."

 

* * *

 

Daisuke looks up from the tea he'd just put down. Sho is watching him. He rewinds the words that were just said; they make no more sense than they did the first time.

"Why would I be mad at you?"

"I was talking with Makita earlier." Sho looks down at the table, at the cup of tea before him. "He — I don't know. He said You-chan put him up to it, but I think he's also fed up with me. Him and everybody else, apparently."

Daisuke blinks. "By everybody else, you mean..."

"Everyone who knows."

"About—" The word _us_ sticks in his throat. Because that's not the right word, is it? But neither is it just _you_ , though it'd be easier to think of it that way.

Sho just shrugs. "Yeah," he says, and, "Can't really blame them."

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who knows." Daisuke picks up his mug again, if only to keep his hands from fidgeting. "Who knows about this?"

"What, you want _names_?" Sho's giving him an odd look; Daisuke stares right back. "Okay, well...all of Seiru, plus Tera, and the half of Hyoutei who weren't too awkward to function. Ryousuke figured it out sometime last year, or maybe that's just when he decided to let on, you can never really tell with him. But between him, Shoutarou, and Jun — where are you going?"

Daisuke abandons his chair and paces to the stove. It's barely three steps; a detour to the fridge on the way back doesn't make it much better. 

"I don't believe this. Your _entire agency_ knows?"

"Most of them don't care."

"And the ones who do? Is that what tonight was about? Because Youichirou can't keep a secret, so Makita-san dragged you to the show — were you even planning on coming?"

"Yeah, I was," Sho snaps. "Youichirou invited me."

 _Unlike you_ — the implication is loud and clear.

"Yeah, well." Daisuke gives up on pacing, sinks back into his seat. "I didn't see you bringing any flowers."

"That's because I'm not trying to date him."

There's maybe a dozen different ways to read into that, and honestly Daisuke would rather just skip a couple pages instead. 

He asks, "What did you and Makita talk about?"

Sho lets out a slow breath; his grin is faint and crooked, but he doesn't comment on the non sequitur. "Remember that time Shoutarou bullied Seiya into taking him out for ice cream — on _Seiya's_ birthday?"

Daisuke blinks. "Vaguely. What does this have to do with—"

"They ended up going with a bunch of D2 guys — Atsushi and Yukki and some others — and a couple days later, Seiya comes up to me with this deathly serious expression and says, _Jinchan, you need to talk to Shoutarou. He might be getting the wrong idea about my intentions toward him._ "

"Wait, was this when they stopped talking for like a week?"

"Probably. Konitan's queer moral compass got taken for a spin, apparently, because the guys saw he was treating Shoutarou and immediately started calling him _sister-in-law_." 

Daisuke nearly chokes on a sip of tea; Sho gives him a wry grin. 

"What Seiya didn't know is that it's not a comment on what team he plays for or who he's trying to recruit. It's just one of the longest-running jokes at Watanabe: any outsider who tags along on a group outing gets called _sister-in-law_ — or _mother-in-law_ , if applicable."

And Daisuke can't not ask: "Did I ever get called that?"

"Safe to say." Sho doesn't meet his eyes. "But the joke started with Makita. He and — well, naming no names, but he had a complicated thing with this guy who he kept bringing along to like, barbecues and birthday dinners—"

"You mean Hirata?"

Sho pauses. "You've heard the rumors too, huh."

"Sort of. Tomoru mentioned it." Daisuke frowns into his tea. "Though I've no idea where _he_ would've heard it from."

"Old Hyoutei, probably." Sho makes a sound that might've been a laugh. "Saves me from having to come up with a code name. But yeah, Makita and Hirata Yuuichirou — everyone knows they'd been doing the no-we're-not-dating thing for like, half a decade or something. Makita says he's over it, if you believe him."

"He's been spending time with You-chan, hasn't he?"

"Sure. But apparently that's also just part and parcel of how Makita operates."

"Operates how?"

Sho traces his thumb around the lip of his tea cup, pushing beads of condensation down. "It's what we were talking about, earlier. I asked him how he got over it, seeing as he's now bringing You-chan flowers — and he gave me the unabridged history of an ambiguous relationship. Except, according to him, there was no ambiguity once he 'changed his perspective'. Because apparently he _chose_ to spend about a billion years getting to know him, building up trust and shit so that they could still stay friends even if his torturously long courtship ended up going down in flames. Because that's just how he operates."

"...which explains the whole thing with You-chan?"

"Yeah."

Daisuke chooses his words carefully. "It seems to be working. In this case."

Sho snorts. "Lucky for him, since it's You-chan. I mean, do you know anybody else who'd have that kind of patience?"

Daisuke isn't sure if he's supposed to agree, or if he's even supposed to answer. It might be rhetorical. 

Except Sho doesn't continue. After a long pause, Daisuke asks, "That's what you guys talked about?"

"Pretty much."

"I see."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Sho looks directly at him. "What?"

Daisuke shrugs. "Nothing. I just thought." He fiddles with his mug of tea, which has gone lukewarm. "Seems like what he said is really bothering you. So I thought, maybe."

"You thought it was some kind of elaborate analogy?"

"No." Daisuke sneaks a glance at him; Sho is looking at the wall, expressionless. "Is it?"

"No. It isn't."

"Right."

"Because I don't operate that way. I don't spend a lot of time laying foundations — if I like someone, then there shouldn't be anything complicated about it. I don't like playing games, long or otherwise."

Sho's voice is steady; academic, even. Daisuke feels anything but. The Makita story might not be an analogy, but this is definitely about them. Only, he doesn't understand how — or why Sho's bringing it up now. 

They'd almost gotten through a normal sort of night. He shouldn't have agreed to come in for tea.

All he comes up with is, "I don't know what you want me to say."

Sho smiles faintly at the table. "Yeah, me neither."

The silence ticks. His tea goes from lukewarm to cold. 

Daisuke gets up from the table, chair scraping softly as he steps away. "I should probably get going."

Sho blinks, glances at the clock. "It's nearly two in the morning."

"Yeah. I'd stay longer, but we have a matinee performance tomorrow." He goes to the entryway, and can't remember where the light switch is. He hears Sho pad after him, footsteps quiet on kitchen tile. Daisuke finds his shoes in the dark. "You don't have to walk me to the train station."

"You sure? Sounds like it's raining pretty hard."

"Thanks, but I'll be fine." 

"Seriously, it's only like five minutes so—"

"It's fine, I'll—" 

"I can just—"

"Why?" Daisuke demands. "What do you _want from me?_ " 

It comes out angrier than he meant for it to be. Sho takes a step back, and even in the dim hallway Daisuke sees the way his expression suddenly shutters closed. He's seen that look before, too many times over the last three years. And he's tired of always ending up back here, square negative one, no matter how close to normal they get. 

He wants his best friend back.

"What was the point of that whole story?" Daisuke asks. "No, tell me! I know I'm not as smart as you but sometimes I think you just like being confusing on purpose, and right now I really don't know what you want from me, okay?"

"I just wanted to talk. I wasn't trying to make a point."

"Weren't you? Weren't you trying to tell me that you don't have time to waste on — building relationships or whatever, because you don't like me anymore?" And that hurts to say, out loud. Strange, when he's been thinking it for months. "Because that's fine. That's good. Which is why I don't need you to walk me to the train station or do nice things like you care—"

"What makes you think I don't care?"

"You don't even talk to me anymore!"

"I know. And you have every right to be mad at me."

Daisuke feels his shoulders shaking — maybe from laughter, maybe hysteria. The wall is solid, pressed against his back, when he slides down to sit with his head in his hands. You-chan would call him melodramatic, probably.

"I don't even know what we're fighting about anymore, Jinshan."

Even to his own ears, his voice is very, very small. 

He hears Sho walk closer, then walk away again. A rustling of clothing, and when Daisuke peeks through his fingers, he sees Sho sitting on the floor across from him. 

"We're not," Sho says. "We're not fighting."

"What are we doing, then?"

"I don't know."

Daisuke makes a sound of disbelief. 

"I really don't," Sho continues. "I'm not trying to be confusing, honest. I just figured there was no point rehashing old arguments."

"I don't think we're having the same argument."

"I'm getting that, yeah." Sho stretches his legs out, one side of the narrow corridor to the other. He sighs. "It's not that I don't care about you, okay? It's never been about that. But I kind of always expected it to — go somewhere. Obviously, it didn't."

"Because I didn't know you were expecting that."

"Yeah, well." Sho drops his head back against the wall. "My sister kept joking that I should bring you home for Christmas."

Daisuke hooks his chin over his knees. Light from the kitchen spills in a yellow patch on the floor. 

"I didn't realize, back then," Daisuke says quietly. "I know you didn't believe me before, and you probably still don't — but you should have just said something."

"Yeah, probably."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I thought it was obvious."

And yeah, it was — in retrospect. In retrospect, Daisuke must've been the only person affiliated with Tenimyu who _didn't_ figure this one out before it all fell apart. 

It was three years ago, Daisuke thinks, and the thought makes him so tired he never wants to move again. Three years, and still here they are.

"I really should go," Daisuke says, after long minutes of silence.

There's an umbrella leaning against the door, behind a pair of boots. 

Sho scrubs his hand over his face. "Yeah," he says. Then, "Actually, no. Stay."

Daisuke blinks. "What?"

"It's late. I've got — you can borrow a change of clothes or whatever."

"I don't think I should."

"You'll fall asleep on the train and end up god knows where." Sho picks himself off the floor, goes to turn on the light. "Anyway, Youichirou might actually kill me if he finds out I kicked you to the curb at two in the morning."

"Shoutarou will _definitely_ kill you if he finds out I stayed." A pause. "Or me, actually. He still likes you."

"Yeah, well." Sho pauses at the end of the hallway, by where the lightswitch is. "Shoutarou's a dick."

Daisuke looks up, surprised, then just as quickly looks away again. 

Because it's nice, hearing someone stick up for him. But the fact that he was even surprised — it's just further proof of how long it's been since he stopped expecting Sho to take his side, always, for better or worse.

But he still wants that. For better or worse. He wants his best friend back. 

He wants Sho to smile when Daisuke calls him _Jinshan_ , and he wants to be able to say yes when Sho asks him to stay. Starting now.

He gets up, following Sho back into the apartment.

"You can have the bed," he says, and Daisuke doesn't argue.

 

* * *

 

It doesn't solve anything, and it's not even a start, really. Because how do you start to repair a relationship that never existed in the first place? 

Sho doesn't remember falling asleep. He remembers lying awake, wrapped in layers of mismatched blankets that do nothing to soften the floor digging into his shoulder blades. He remembers listening to Daisuke breathing, the soft sounds of movement that tell him they're both still awake, but neither of them are willing to break the uneasy silence that feels almost — maybe — like some kind of armistace.

He thinks about texting Shoutarou and thinks better of it. The next thing he remembers for sure is waking up to his phone buzzing from the depths of his blanket cacoon.

The sun's already high enough to make him squint as he peers at the screen. Twelve new messages. One from Hirata, asking if a missing earring turned up in anyone's pockets or purse. Two from his sister, complaining about the new neighbors. One from Youichirou, apologizing for — the next eight messages, apparently, which are all from Shoutarou:

_How did it go_

_Or should I say WHERE DID YOU GO_

_You-chan's playing coy but I sense A Situation!!_

_You're not even tweeting cryptically oh my god did something actually happen?????_

_Are you still alive_

_Is anyone alive_

_Are they gonna have to cancel hetalia because Someone suddenly disappeared in a cloud of karma_

_I AM PREPARED TO KNOCK DOWN YOUR DOOR DON'T THINK I WOULDN'T_

When he gets to the last text, Sho sits upright to peer blearily in the direction of his front door — from which come no ominous sounds of breaking-and-entering. He snorts to himself.

He's about to text Shoutarou back when he realizes there's no sound at all, in his apartment. There's a set of pajamas thrown over the back of a chair, a rumpled imprint on his otherwise empty bed, and Daisuke—

Daisuke is gone.

It's past nine. It makes sense; there's a matinee performance today, and Youichirou is already up, too, so it makes perfect sense. He extended an invitation to crash for the night. There was never any talk of what happens next. It makes sense.

Still, as he wraps a blanket around himself and pads to the kitchen to put the kettle on — it stings, maybe more than it should, to have believed for even a split second that there are such small miracles as _good morning_ , or a cup of coffee, a smile before saying goodbye.

He's still waiting for the water to boil when he hears the front door open. And for one wild moment, Sho thinks: _Holy shit, Shoutarou wasn't kidding._

He goes to the entryway.

Daisuke blinks at the blanket-wrapped figure that appears before him. 

"Hey, um. Good morning." He toes off his shoes, both hands wrapped around a stack of two holiday-themed Starbucks cups. "I thought you might want to sleep in."

"Just woke up." Sho can't seem to summon enough brain cells to parse what's happening. "You left."

"I went to get coffee. Which, um." Daisuke holds out one cup, hesitates. "Caramel macchiato. Or I've got an Americano here, if you — if that's not your order anymore."

Sho opens his mouth, closes it again. The only thing his sleep-damaged brain manages to come up with is, 

"Since when do you know my usual order?"

"Uh, since we always got coffee together?" Daisuke actually looks offended. Though at Sho's nonplussed look, he wilts slightly. "Or, I mean — you always got me coffee." He looks down at the two cups in his hands. "And I never paid you back, so."

He holds out the macchiato again. 

Sho lets go of his grip on the blankets; Daisuke's fingers are cold, despite the heat of the cup. The first sip burns the roof of his mouth. Daisuke wraps both hands around his Americano, as if uncertain of what to do next.

The kettle whistles, startling them both. 

"Do you want something to eat?" Sho asks, even as Daisuke blurts, "I realized I forgot to say—"

The bubbling of water punctuates the pause.

Sho clears his throat. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

Daisuke fidgets with his red-and-green coffee cup. "Nothing. Just." He glances up — a bit sheepish, almost shy. "Merry Christmas. Belatedly."

And of all things, this shouldn't be it. It's just a damn coffee. A couple Starbucks bills barely makes a dent in the full accounting of debts, monetary or otherwise.

But maybe that's exactly why.

Daisuke is smiling at him, not uncertain so much as hopeful, and Sho wants to take his ice cold hands and chide him for not borrowing a pair of gloves while he was looting around anyway for the apartment keys. There'll be time for that, later. 

Right now what he needs to say is, "Come sit," and, "I'll make breakfast."

The blanket trails after him, dragging over kitchen tile. Steam curls from the kettle in white cloud wisps. Daisuke's socked feet make the faintest of sounds as they follow him to the table, two mugs still there from the night before.

And it might not be enough, not even close — but there are worse reasons than this, Sho thinks, to at least want to believe.


End file.
